Not The Brother You Know
by FisherofMen
Summary: A lot can happen in four months. Dean is out of the pit, so why does it feel like he's still in hell? (PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS INSIDE)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I loved Season 4, but I had expected an even darker four months than implied (and isn't that saying a lot, my twisted mind). So... my evil self created this. Don't know how long this will be. If you like it, I'll post a lot more. If not, then I'll probably either leave it the way it is, or add one or two more chapters.**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own SPN. Some dialogue was taken directly from the show, though.**

**Rated: T for swearing, dark themes.**

**Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.**

**Pairings: None, but if you wish to see it that way...**

**Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby (mentions of John).**

**Takes place in a slightly AU Season 4.**

**WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE/SELF HARM.**

000

PROLOGUE

_"Sam?"_

_It was dark..._

_"...Bobby, hurry up."_

_Had he fallen asleep again?_

_"Come on, man."_

_Dammit. He wasn't supposed to fall asleep. Hadn't he just closed his eyes for a second?_

_"You- ah, shit."_

_Something pattered against his cheek, gentle but demanding._

_"You gotta wake up, buddy."_

_A weight pressed against his side and the blessed numbness of sleep vanished behind a cloak of fire and pain, consuming his torso and spreading to his arms, hot, burning, melting-_

_"Sam!"_

_His eyelids peeled open of their own accord, seeing only foggy gray veiling two pools of green... And red. Too much red. Spattered, soaking all over the slowly clearing shirt in front of him. All over the sleeves, the collar, the hands, the neck - oh God, the hellhouds - Dean, Dean, DeanDeanDeanDeanDean-_

_"Dean!" he tried to call, but the pitiful rasp that reached his ears sent another spike of panic through his burning chest._

_"Shh, shh. Sam-" Dean started._

_Sam lifted his hand - or tried to - towards the blood coating Dean's fingers and hands and forearms - oh God, not again._

_"Y-you..." The word slipped from his mouth like syrup, thick and sticky as it left his tongue._

_"Shut up, Sam, it's not mine. Not most of it, anyway."_

_Not. Friggin. Helping._

_"I need you to stay away, okay? Keep those eyes open," he continued, the pressure on Sam's left side increasing with each sentence. Through the constant heat, he could feel something warm and thick dripping down his side, no doubt adding more layers to the blood that he was sure was underneath his shirt. He arched his neck back against the floor, lifting his upper back from the ground as he tried to squirm away from the pain._

_"Hey, hey, hey! Hold still. You gotta hold still, okay?"_

_God, he was on fire. He was friggin burning alive._

_"I know it hurts, but you gotta stop moving." The pressure subsided for a moment, followed by a muttered 'damn', then the pressure was back, adding more fuel to the flames that licked at his skin. White spread across his vision until he squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Behind the haze he could hear Dean talking, but it sounded no louder than whispers to his ringing ears._

_"Castiel!" broke through the high pitched noise, cracking through what Sam realized was silence. He flinched and forced his eyes open once again. "Dammit, angels are supposed to heal people," Dean added under his breath._

_Castiel? Who the hell-_

_"Sam... Eyes. Open."_

_He complied, wondering when he had closed them again._

_God, he just wanted to sleep. Sleep took the pain away, the fire, the heat, the burning. Numbness tingled at his fingertips, coaxing his eyelids to slide down, down, down..._

_"Sam!"_

000

CHAPTER ONE

The car was quiet, save the humming of the engine as it purred merrily down the stretch of road. Bobby occasionally tapped his fingers across the steering wheel to an imaginary tune, but forced them to still when the small tapping all but shattered the tense silence like a opera singer's wine glass.

Dean was alive, yes, but they weren't out of the woods yet.

The older brother watched the scenery as they drove past it, eyes far away and not really catching anything. Bobby had seen that hundred-yard-stare in John whenever Mary was brought up - which wasn't a lot - and he wished to God he'd never see it in his boys. Unfortunately, he figured that both of them would have that look in their eye a lot in the days - weeks - to come.

The boys didn't deserve everything they'd gone through. Hell,_ John_ didn't deserve everything he'd gone through. Nobody deserved it.

Bobby tapped his fingers over the wheel again, wincing as the sound reverberated in the interior of the vehicle, slicing through his eardrums and the silence surrounding him. This was going to be a long eight hours to Pontiac.

But it would be worth it, he told himself.

Dean had been in hell for four damn months; the least Bobby could do was drive a couple of hours to Dean's little brother who was doing God knew what. Kid hadn't been the same since... Well, neither had Bobby. Nobody who met Dean Winchester could forget him. Whether it be on good terms or bad. The latter you could bet would never forget the hunter.

Bobby could only guess how many impressions Sam had made on the monsters in the closets since Dean had... Bobby hadn't heard much of the younger Winchester, but he did and didn't like what he _had_ heard. Started hunting - hell, he embraced it - and word of the lone huntsman went around quickly. The young man was always quick, determined, focused. Apparently, he'd even cleaned out a vampire nest single-handedly. He was unfaltering with his job, from what others' had seen of it. He worked solo, though, and that's what worried Bobby the most.

He wished he could have talked some sense into the boy, but Winchesters were the most stubborn people Bobby knew and when one was without the other, it only worsened.

"Bobby?"

The old hunter flinched at the sudden word, but glanced at the source and hummed a response.

"How long did Sam stick around after..."

He was unsure if Dean dropped the sentence off on purpose or not, but it wasn't hard to guess what he was asking about.

"Not long. Not even a week. Barely said a word the whole time," he muttered, gaze pinned ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean nodded and straightened in his seat, letting silence once more fall over the two men. The silence wasn't even awkward, just... stiff. Tense. Heavy.

"You okay?" Bobby chanced, gripping the steering wheel tighter with calloused hands.

"I will be."

Bobby nodded in unvoiced agreement. Both of them would be.

000

Once the 'Welcome to Pontiac' sign came into view, both hunters tensed, but continued on in silence. When they'd checked Sam's phone's GPS, it had been pinpointed on a motel at the edge of town and that was where they were going.

It wasn't hard to deny which hotel Sam was at anyway when they caught sight of the black beauty settled in one of the parking spaces out front, all gleaming and sparkling in the streetlight. Bobby thought Dean would jump out of the car then and there, but luckily, he stayed seated until they parked. As soon as the car lurched to a stop, Dean catapulted out of his seat and bolted over to his baby, laying his hand on the trunk and caressing it all the way to the hood. Bobby resisted a chuckle and climbed out of his seat, lower back and knees popping with the effort.

"You two gonna need a room?" he asked as he approached them.

Dean ignored him and continued to hover over his car. "Aw, baby, it's good to see you."

Bobby just shook his head and grabbed one of the lobby doors, holding it open.

"You comin'?" he asked, but Dean was already hurrying over, shouldering past him and up to the sign-in desk. A young man with wiry glasses and over-gelled hair slouched in a chair, a magazine in his hands as he flipped through it. He shot to his feet, obviously flustered, when he noticed them approaching.

"Uh, how - how can I help you?" he asked quickly, rubbing his fingers under his nose.

"We're looking for a guy who's staying here; dark hair, puppy eyes, freakishly tall?" Dean stood rigid in front of Bobby, curling and un-curling his hands as he awaited a response.

"Um, I'm not sure if... Who's asking?" he eyed them warily and Bobby thought he'd have to hold Dean back to keep from decking the guy.

"_His brother,_" Dean spat and Bobby could only imagine the wild look in his eyes. The young man blinked a few times before his shoulders relaxed a fraction and he took a step forward to reach for a piece of paper. His eyes raked down the length of it and then flickered up.

"Room two-o-seven."

Dean turned away and marched towards the elevator, Bobby on his heels, struggling to stay in stride.

Who knew what the older brother was thinking? Four months of hell and the first thing he did was start looking for his brother. But it wasn't like Bobby expected anything else. Dean had always put Sam before himself; not even in choice, just instinct. But hell couldn't just be forgotten. Dean hadn't brought up what happened downstairs and it's not like Bobby was going to push. Hell, no. That would be... a catastrophe. Bobby didn't even know if he wanted to know. He would listen if that's what Dean wanted - though he doubted it - but he didn't exactly look forward to that conversation.

He hoped Sam could help. Dean sure as hell - no pun intended - wasn't okay, even if he appeared so, and it would come up eventually. He just prayed that Sam was there to help put his brother back together again.

The elevator was too slow.

The hallway was too long.

But then it was there, the numbers two-o-seven encased in a red heart on the door. Bobby could hear Dean swallow next to him as he extended his arm to knock, knuckles white from being fisted so tight. The sound was surprisingly quiet, but Dean knocked a couple extra times, each rap louder than the last.

The hallway filled with silence and they waited. Bobby shifted his weight to his other leg, swearing that minutes had already passed.

"Sammy?" Dean spoke into the wood, voice muffled.

No response.

He chanced another knock and pressed his ear to the door.

"Sam?"

Nothing.

Dean looked back at Bobby, brows furrowed in a 'what the hell' expression. Bobby shrugged and gestured to the knob.

"You got a lock-pick?" Dean asked and Bobby fished the object out of his pocket, handing it over with a quick swipe of his arm. Dean dropped to the floor and started working at the lock, small clicks and ticks reaching the oldest hunter's ears. The loudest click, however, snagged his attention and he took a step forward. Dean tossed the pick back to Bobby and eased the door open.

Darkness cloaked the room, the only source of light drifting through the thin curtains along the far wall from the streetlamps to cast shadows across the walls. Dean hovered in the doorway with his hand splayed over the door, gently opening it wider until it hit the wall.

Still nothing. Still no Sam.

Bobby fought against the pooling dread in his stomach that made his limbs feel heavy, provoking sweat to drip down his forehead until it landed in his eye. He blinked it away and pulled out his silver knife, unable to fight off voice that kept screaming 'danger' in his head until his ears rang.

Dean jerked his head in the direction of the room. If Sam was inside, then it'd be best if he saw his father figure first, rather than his supposedly-burning-in-hell brother.

With heavy caution, Bobby proceeded into the room, blade held out in front of himself. The room was large; a room built for more than a single inhabitant, if the two queen beds were any indication. A twinge of emotion twisted in Bobby's chest. Sam still camped in a room big enough for him and his dead brother, despite the extra cost.

But now both beds were empty.

The bathroom door stood open, revealing the same conclusion the rest of the motel room told: Sam wasn't there. Unless -

Someone grunted behind him, then the sound of the door slamming shut sounded. He spun around as fast as his old body would allow.

A tall man with shaggy dark hair, muscles rippling beneath thin skin, had Dean pinned against the wall, knife held against his throat. The blade reflected what little light it could, its handle grasped in almost bony fingers. Even spotting the man's profile, recognition sparked in Bobby.

"Sam!" he shouted and lunged forward to grab him, surprised and dazed when a sharp elbow jabbed into his chest. Dean's Adam's apple bobbed, sliding against the blade enough to draw a sliver of red. "Sam, it's him - it's Dean!"

"Like hell!" came the strained reply, laced with stoney determination that bled through to his locked position.

"Sammy."

Dean's quiet voice caught both of them off guard and Bobby swore he saw Sam flinch.

"Don't call me that," he hissed, pressing the knife a little harder.

"Sam! It's Dean. It's really him; I already tested everything - It's him." He made sure his voice was hard; a statement. "Let him go, Sam."

Sam's shoulders quivered.

"Let me go, Sammy," Dean tried, snaking a slow hand to grip the wrist that kept him against the wall. When he gently tugged, Sam's limb followed obediently until Dean could take the knife from his fingers. He moved slow, as if trying not to spoke a wild animal.

Sam suddenly tensed, pulling his arm out of his brother's grasp to stride over to the bed where a duffle sat. He rifled through it and pulled out a flask.

"Drink," he said, voice still hard as he held the object out. Dean stared at it a moment before complying. Without waiting for the next request - command - Dean grabbed the silver knife from Bobby and sliced his palm open.

The muscles in Sam's jaw jumped.

"See?" Dean took a step forward, hands open in a sign of surrender, not threatening. "It's me."

Sam angled his body to face Dean, eyes still shaded.

Bobby didn't like how he looked. He appeared to have more muscle than last seen, but also less fat. Too little fat; too angular. His face looked gaunt and the rest of his body looked bigger and smaller at the same time, but the shadows of weariness remained on his face. The kid looked as if he hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks - months, even.

He probably hadn't.

Sam's somewhat neutral scowled twisted into a grimace as he looked Dean up and down, appearing to finally see his brother and not whatever he thought he was before.

"It's me," Dean repeated, taking another hesitant step forward.

The younger straightened his back and squared his shoulders, rubbing his fingers together while his breath grew shallow, as if a single exhale would shatter the precious image before him, turning out to be an illusion. His gaze suddenly shot to Bobby, the questions swimming in them catching the old man off guard.

But he nodded. _Yes. Yes, it's your brother. _

The muddy green eyes flicked back to Dean.

Bobby knew Dean; he wasn't much for 'chick-flick moments', but the older brother now looked like he was just waiting to pounce on his brother, wrap his arms around the fragile man before them and hide him from the world, protect him. He just needed an okay.

As if on cue, Sam strode the last few steps to his brother, arms snaking around in an almost-desperate embrace.

Dean returned the gesture without hesitation.

The tension slipped from Bobby's limbs, leaving him swaying on his feet with relief. _Yes,_ he thought. That was how the brothers were supposed to look. Safe. Not always 'okay', but they had each other and _that_ was 'okay'. Not 'fine', but together. The thought, the image, of a lone brother was not one Bobby enjoyed to witness. One was never the same without the other.

Sam's fingers tightened around the fabric of his brother's dull-colored jacket, Dean's flexing around Sam's shoulder in response.

Then they pulled apart, the action drying Bobby's startlingly wet eyes.

He was suddenly thankful he'd gotten Dean a new pair of clothes. He didn't want to think about the brothers' reunion with the lingering smell of grave dirt floating in the air. They didn't need that extra sucker punch.

He didn't know if they could take another hit.

000

Dean rubbed his hand over his forehead and down to his chin, wiping the signs of sleep in attempt to stay awake. Despite the fact that his body had technically been 'asleep' for four months, his eyelids insisted they needed to close.

A dull _thunk_ sounded the water shutting off in the bathroom and Dean looked back to the task at hand: invading privacy.

He heard Bobby sigh somewhere to his right as he groped around in a duffel, fingering through clothes, books and weapons.

"Come on, Bobby, aren't you lightheaded yet?" Dean huffed, shooting a glance up at the older man who was now scowling at him.

"Just sayin'. Sam's not gonna be happy if he finds you're going through his stuff."

Dean grimaced past the musty smell of old clothes and promised himself that he'd have to go shopping for Sam later.

"Why do you think I waited until he was in the shower?" he pointed out, fingertips brushing against the hard fabric bottom of the bag. A curious frown creased his forehead when something sharp poked his hand. "What..." He felt around further and closed his fingers around the small plastic object, pulling it out of the bag. "The hell...?"

Bobby perked up from his spot on the other bed.

"The hell is this?" Dean asked, incredulous, as he held up the empty, but coated with something, syringe for observation. The older hunter rose to his feet and stepped next to Dean, eyes running up and down the object. As Bobby took it, Dean went back to searching, pulling out one, two, three more syringes.

"What the hell are these for?" he questioned, becoming more desperate for an answer with each glance at the needles.

"I... I don't..."

The bathroom door opened.

Both men's heads shot up, meeting the gaze of the youngest Winchester and most likely looking the spitting image of 'deer in the headlights'.

Sam blinked, gaze fluttering between their faces and the things they were holding.

"What..?" he started, but Dean flexed his fingers and tilted his head, stepping in before Sam's undeniable anger could show.

"We need to talk."

Sam's eyes narrowed. He marched forward, tearing the syringes from both hunters' grasps and shoving them deep into his bag.

"Yean, no shit," he said, voice low. "Like, how the hell did you get out of... _hell?_"

"Cut the crap, Sam. What'd it cost, huh?" Dean leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms.

"What?"

"Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?"

Sam shook his head and peeked up at his brother through wet hair. "I didn't make a deal."

"Don't lie to me-"

"I'm not lying." Sam straightened when Dean started to advance, arms rigid.

"So what now, I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this." Hot anger coursed through Dean's veins, fueling his movements and giving his mind one focus: an answer. The right answer. The honest answer.

"I didn't sell anything! I _tried!_ Hell, I tried _everything,_ but nothing would work; no demon would deal! You were rotting in hell for months, Dean - _for months_ - and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me! I'm sorry." The last sentence was emphasized with the sudden droop in Sam's shoulders as he eased onto the edge of the mattress, gaze on the carpet.

Even with a shower, Sam still looked worn. A shadow of age darkened his eyes, too old for his young face, and Dean hated it. He wanted to take it away. Where was that light that used to be there?

_It left when you did. _

Dean flinched at the voice in his head.

"It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to apologize... I believe you." He lowered himself to sit next to Sam, but not too close. He hated that too.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that Sam's soul remains intact, but it does raise a sticky question." Bobby tore Dean from his thoughts, voice ringing through his ears to rattle his brain. He glanced up at his father figure and pressed his lips together. He nodded his head and glanced to his left, at his definitely-off brother. Or maybe he was acting normal. It's not like Dean had anything recent to compare the behavior to.

If Sam didn't pull him out of hell, then what did?

But Dean still wanted an answer to a different question.

He cleared his throat and stared at his still dirty knuckles.

"What are the syringes for, Sammy?" His voice was stiff and hoarse, grating against his eardrums, most likely doing the same for Sam's.

Sam stiffened.

Were they for him? Or someone else? Some monster cure or something?

Dean chanced a look at Sam's forearms. The air left his lungs and his mouth went dry, leaving his head feeling heavy and vision swimming. From his vantage point, only the inside of Sam's left arm was visible, the right angled away. But the left arm could be seen. The skin was still damp from the shower. But Dean couldn't take his eyes off of the vein, or more importantly, the puckered scar that trailed along it, signs of old stitches marking the already abused surface. It started below his wrist, trailing up the length of the limb until ending almost two inches below the elbow. Two or three lighter and fresher cuts, in the opposite direction of the first, lined the last few inches of smooth skin, almost too shallow to be noticed.

But Dean noticed.

He heard a sharp intake of breath - Bobby - and forced his gaze towards the noise. Bobby must've followed Dean's lead; his eyes were now glued to a probably-similar scar on Sam's right arm, if the size of his eyeballs said anything.

Dean's stomach twisted into knots and for the first time he hoped a ghoul or even a vampire had sliced his brother open.

"Sam?" he muttered, reaching carefully to grab the right wrist while standing. In case Sam would pull away, he angled the limb a little to examine it, catching a glimpse of the scar he had hoped wasn't there.

With a quick but small motion, Sam jerked his arm out of Dean's grip and held both of them against his stomach. Dean lifted his eyes to meet Sam's, only to see the top of his eyelids. His face drained of color until it almost looked gray and Dean let out a shaky breath.

"Sammy, what are those from?" And Dean was surprised at how quiet - small - his own voice sounded and hoped it was non-threatening enough. Sam inhaled, trembling, and swallowed three times. Nauseous, then, and that only served to add another pound to the lump of fear in Dean's gut. "Sammy?" Sam's eyes fluttered open.

_God, please let it be a monster. A ghoul. A vampire. Hell, a friggin' human. _

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Sam's gaze drifted up until they locked with Dean's, all the answers screaming within the muddy green irises.

_No. No, no, no, no, no -_

And Dean _couldn't breathe._

He nodded in understanding, numb, as he stepped away from his brother.

He needed air.

But he couldn't leave his brother.

On unconscious movements, he fled to the bathroom, closing the door with a soft click and locking it. He turned on the water, then the shower, with unfeeling hands, lungs stiff as they held air and refused to let it out. Then his knees were buckling and he jack-knifed to lean over the toilet, stomach muscles spazzing as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl.

It must have been hours. It felt like it to Dean when he lifted a shaky hand to flush.

_God, no. _

Not his little brother. Not Sam. Not Sammy.

He felt the tears hitch in his chest, welling in the bottom of his throat. It was the perfect time and place; the running showerhead muted almost any noise he dared to make.

But they wouldn't come. Even when he wanted - needed - them to come, the dam refused to break.

With a curse, he leaned back against the wall and covered his face with his hands.

000

**A/N: Yes, I am evil. I'm hoping not to make this too much of an AU, so if I continue this, you can bet that Cas will probably come in, and other characters that were in Season 4 as well.**

**Please, if you see any typos or think they were out of character, notify me? Oh, and leave a review, my lovelies, if you want some pie!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Tada! Here's chapter two. Sorry for the delay, I almost forgot about the 200th episode and I was scrambling to watch it last night (btw IT WAS SO GOOD). I hope I don't bore you with this chapter, or other chapters ahead. This will follow the general story line of Season 4 (so be aware of S1-S4 spoilers throughout this fic), just with some changes, mostly on Sam's part and Dean's new reactions to those changes. I hope you like it, though.**

****Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own SPN. Some dialogue was taken directly from the show, though, most of it kept out of necessity, or just cause I like those particular lines. :D****

******Rated: T for swearing, dark themes.******

****WARNINGS: SPOILERS FOR LAZARUS RISING AND SEASON 4 IN GENERAL.****

000

CHAPTER TWO

Dean was still in the bathroom.

The water had shut off about two and a half hours before, but other than that, not a whisper came from behind the door. Bobby left around two hours after Dean disappeared, saying he would pick up some food and ask a few trusted hunters about what might have gotten Dean out of hell. Though he was most likely just trying to give the brothers some space. Sam appreciated the thought, but Dean would have been in the bathroom for four hours now if he didn't come out in the next thirty minutes.

After a few silent minutes of just Bobby and Sam, the latter zipped up his duffel, tossed it between the beds, and sat Indian style on the mattress.

And still the young hunter sat, eyes tracing the strange tiger-like patterns covering the wall as he wondered why he'd gotten such a weird room. He liked the lighting of the room, though. Dim. Dark. It gave him a feeling of security; you could hide better in the dark. With a sigh, he leaned over to switch off the bedside lamp, grimacing as the bruised muscles in his upper back stretched. The room darkened considerably, leaving only the small light from the kitchenette and the crack underneath the bathroom door to keep his surroundings visible.

He straightened back to a sitting position, wincing slightly.

Sleep tugged at his posture, but a small headache kept him awake. He wasn't sure if it was from the previous exorcism or the current crappy situation.

It wasn't all bad, though. Dean was freaking _alive._ That alone kept the last few hours from looking like a borderline hellhound dump.

Bad joke.

Sam didn't bring hellhouds up unless he had to.

Maybe it all had been a dream. Wouldn't be the first time. The bathroom was quiet, could be empty by appearance, no sign that Bobby even touched the room and Sam still felt somewhat like crap.

He suddenly needed to see his brother.

The springs creaked as he jumped off of them, taking hesitant, but quick steps towards the slab of wood that disconnected him from his brother. He tapped his knuckles against the surface; a mouse among elephants of silence.

"Dean?"

No answer.

Sam's heart clenched.

He swallowed and reached to open the door.

When the brass knob turned beneath his fingers, the air left his lungs in a shaky breath, muted by the sound of the door as it creaked open to reveal a familiar, yet unnerving face.

Dean looked drawn and pale, too many years lurking behind green eyes that caught Sam's before flickering away. The older brother shouldered past Sam. Not in a cold way. Not even uncomfortably, just... light. Gentle. Like walking on eggshells.

Sam resisted a sigh; so he was the eggshells.

Dean cleared his throat.

"I, uh, got a text from Bobby," he said.

Bobby was texting? Scratch eggshells; more like mousetraps.

"He knows a psychic a couple hours away. Thinks maybe she might know something... He gave us the directions; said to meet him there."

Sam offered a terse nod before packing his things, trying to ignore the tension in the air as he paid for his room and entered the parking lot with Dean at his back. He wordlessly tossed his brother the car keys and slid into the passenger seat in a similar fashion. Shoulders aching, he burrowed deeper into the leather cushions as he heaved his luggage into the backseat.

Some of the tension melted away within the comfortable confines of the only thing they could call home.

"So what were you doing around here if you weren't digging me out of my grave?" Dean asked once they were out on the interstate. There were no hints of accusation in the tone, so Sam let himself relax a little more.

"I was actually on my way to Tennessee, tracking some demons. They took a hard left so I followed them here."

Dean nodded slowly. "When?"

"Yesterday morning."

He nodded again, letting the car fill with silence once more.

Dean's resurrection wasn't suppose to feel that way. It was supposed to feel like a good thing. Not awkward. Not tense. Not... hard.

Sam was excited - hell, he was ecstatic - but the feeling didn't spread beyond his chest. Like it was trapped in his ribcage. It wasn't exactly easy to be excited when said resurrected brother just had his world crushed (if somehow it hadn't been already) and was probably shaking hands with PTSD from hell.

"What was it like?" The words tumbled from Sam's tongue before he could stop them, breaking the quiet like shattering glass and making him cringe.

"What? Hell?" The response was almost immediate; unfazed. "I don't know. I... I must have blacked it out. I don't remember a damn thing," he answered bitterly, like the words left a bad taste in his mouth. Like the topic of hell still triggered feelings of anger, sadness, disgust, even if he couldn't remember why. It wasn't hard to guess. It was hell.

"Thank God for that," Sam said a little breathlessly. He hoped Dean didn't have to remember for the rest of his life. Four months in hell? It could probably land him in a psych ward. Dean hummed in agreement.

More silence.

Until Dean decided to break it.

"What was your four months like?"

Sam scrambled to answer quickly, before he could lose his nerve which would only serve to make Dean press harder.

"You must have a lot of questions," he answered lamely.

"Let's just start with the first one," he was quick to shoot back. The words were laced with determination and a little frustration, but they were still gentle. Still careful. Like Sam could break if he raised his voice too loud.

That only irked him. He wasn't fragile. He wasn't weak.

He snuck a glance at his forearms, shifting the scarred sides to press against his stomach.

Who was he kidding? He barely survived the first couple weeks on his own.

_But you did survive. _

000

Dean didn't miss the way Sam tucked his arms away, seeming to keep his body hunched over them to the point of discomfort, if the way he kept wincing was anything to go by.

He swallowed a sigh and readjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

The story of Sam's four months loomed like a shadow over Dean, hidden behind a curtain but still visible. He almost didn't want to know.

No.

He did want to know. He just didn't want to be reminded that he wasn't there for his brother. That Sam was alone when he needed Dean the most. That he would live with those scars as a constant reminder of loneliness, hopelessness, _hell._

"The first couple weeks were the hardest." Sam's voice broke through Dean's thoughts, sending them scattering into the corners of his mind so he could focus. "I, uh... I tried to deal." He paused to shake his head. "Nothing would work. You were gone. I couldn't bring you back..." Another beat. "I got low."

Dean resisted a snort.

Apparently 'low' meant 'tried to kill my friggin' self'.

Sam cleared his throat and lifted his chin. "Anyway, R-Ruby showed up. Straightened me out a little." Dean raised his eyebrows, holding his tongue. The demon bitch helped straighten out his brother? He clenched his jaw. Well, she could beat it. Dean was back and he wasn't about to leave his brother alone again. "We, uh... went after Lilith. Killed as many demons as we could looking for her." Sam swallowed audibly, shrugging. "Not much else besides that."

Dean frowned and risked a glance to his right.

"Were's Ruby now?"

Sam shrugged. "Don't know."

Yeah. Right. What happened to the Lilith-hunting honeymoon?

He nodded anyway.

He wanted to chew out his brother. First, did Sam just think that Dean didn't want any details? Like what exactly happened to create the friggin' canyons in his brother's arms? How did he not... succeed? And Ruby? Why the hell did he listen to her? She was a friggin' demon; the same type of monster that dragged him to hell. Did Sam plan on hunting with her again?

Dean knew he had every right to hate the bitch. But if she had somehow helped his brother out of 'low', he owed her something. He couldn't deny that, as much as he hated it.

He'd thank her. And then he could kill her. With her own precious knife.

His gaze flickered to Sam's upper forearm where he knew he'd spotted other shallow cuts. A lump of nausea twisted in his stomach.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asked, hoping Sam didn't need it spelled out for him.

He felt familiar eyes on him and tried not to squirm. After a moment of silence, his brother let out a shaky breath.

"Do you want me to?"

He blinked.

He hadn't expected that.

Did he want him to? To listen to the story of his brother's own personal hell? To listen to the story that would no doubt create new scars on Dean's heart and soul?

Yes.

His brother had suffered alone for long enough. Dean was there now. Sam didn't have to be alone anymore.

He managed a strained nod, to which Sam mimicked in return.

"I, uh... I don't..." The trembling inhale that interrupted his sentence sent shards of ice into Dean's chest. "Not sure how to..."

"It's okay," Dean said quickly, voice small and - he hoped - comforting.

_It's okay if you don't want to say anything._

_It's okay if you need time._

_It's okay._

"Do you have any specific questions... about it?" He heard the false easiness behind the voice and the hidden message within it. _Can you give me something to say?_ Sam sounded more sure than Dean expected someone explaining their suicide attempt to be, but Dean would make it as easy as possible for his little brother to relive. Because he _wasn't alone_ anymore.

God forgive him for leaving Sam in the first place.

"Uh, why aren't you...?" He ground his teeth together, unable to spit the words out.

"... dead?" Sam finished. Dean blinked at the road. "... uh, Ruby."

And he let the statement hang in the air, making the older hunter clench his teeth harder.

Dammit.

He only nodded.

"And the other..."_ ...cuts._ Dean flinched. Sam shrugged, seeming to comprehend but refusing to answer.

Stupid kid. Stupid older brother. Stupid Ruby. And Dean still didn't know how Sam had even made it the first few _minutes_ after he died; wasn't Lilith still in the same room when he bit the dust?

Or if Ruby was hunting with Sam, did that mean he was exploring his... abilities?

Or what about the syringes? What the hell?

But Dean couldn't stop thinking about the scars... The cuts that could have ended his brother - that almost drained the life out of his brother who would have died completely alone.

His brother was stronger than him. Dean knew that without a doubt. His little brother had survived four months alone; it was more than Dean could have lasted. Dean didn't want to think about what he would have done in Sam's situation. As selfish as it was, he didn't want to think about it. Why had Sam used a knife? Dean would have used a gun, blasted his brains out quick and final. And for what? For Bobby to find him later?

_Shut up. _

The air felt to sticky. Dean cracked his window, calmed by the shuddering noise it whispered into the interior.

"It was a mistake," his brother muttered.

Dean winced.

"I don't know..." He paused. "I'm sorry."

And Dean grimaced against the back of his seat because that felt like a punch to the gut. Sam needed to shut up. He just needed to shut. Up.

_No, I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry I had to leave you._

_I'm sorry I put you through that._

_I'm sorry I wasn't there for you._

_I'm sorry I couldn't fix it._

_I'm sorry I left you alone._

"Don't," was all he could choke out because _dammit Sam._

Sam didn't need to apologize to Dean. _Shouldn't._ He felt his brother's eyes on him and white-knuckled the wheel, pursing his lips as he fought the guilt that seeped into his bones. He reduced his brother to... to a position where death seemed like the only escape. He'd saved his little brother's life and sentenced him to death at the same time.

But Sammy hadn't gone. He was still there, right next to Dean, where he belonged, in the Impala.

Dean wasn't sure if he could ever let him go again - even let him out of his sight. The kid could take care of himself, that much he had proved, but he didn't _need_ to for a long time.

Not anymore.

000

Dean tried not to curse.

He really did. In public, in the middle of Johnny Mac's Diner, in front of the slightly attractive waitress, it would certainly be awkward.

But Pam's friggin _eyes burned._

"What can I get for you?"

"_Dammit,_" he muttered under his breath, offering a stiff smile when the woman leaned forward with a 'sorry, didn't get that'. The waitress scribbled down his order and then waltzed back towards the kitchen with swaying hips that would have caught Dean's attention if his mind wasn't otherwise occupied. Sam stepped past her, phone against his ear as he sat across from Dean.

"You bet," he ended the call, shoving his cell into his pocket.

"What'd Bobby say?"

"Pam's stable. And out of I.C.U," he answered, visibly swallowing, and rested his forearms on the table. Dean silently thanked whatever God was listening that Sam was wearing his coat.

"And blind, because of us," Dean couldn't help but add with a disappointed scowl at the gray and white flooring.

"And we still have no clue what we're dealing with."

And the sun just kept shining brighter. Dean shook his head, wiping a hand down his tired eyes. He needed a coffee.

"That's not entirely true," he mumbled into his fingers.

Sam's brows furrowed. "No?"

"We got a name. Castiel, or whatever. With the right mumbo-jumbo we could summon him, bring him right to us."

"...Are you insane?"

Dean shrugged, pretending to mull over his answer. "Yeah, maybe a little."

"No. Absolutely not."

"We'll work him over. I mean, after what he did?" Dean leaned forward on the table. The waitress dropped his food onto the tabletop with a smile, to which he returned quickly, then she hurried away.

"Pam took a peek at him and her eyes burned out of her skull, and you want to have a face to face?" Sam asked incredulously.

"You got a better idea?"

They couldn't do nothing. Dean couldn't. He _needed_ something - anything - to do that involved ass-kicking.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. I followed some demons to town, right?"

Dean raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Okay."

"So, we go find them. Someone's gotta know something about something."

The waitress reappeared, two plates in hand which she gently set onto their table. Hot, fresh cherry pie steamed, the aroma reaching Dean's nose. It smelled like baked heaven. He imagined himself pulling it close, lifting it to his face while he soaked up it's smell and appearance before the real party would start...

Only he didn't reach for it. Because he didn't order any pie.

"Uh, I think you've got the wrong table," he tried, glancing up to lock eyes with the raven-haired girl.

Appearing to not have heard, she slid into the chair at the end of the table, gaze drifting between the two. A line creased between Sam's eyebrows as he made a face at the unfamiliar woman.

Dean opened his mouth to repeat himself, only to be interrupted by a flash of white teeth.

"I'm sorry. Thought you were looking for us." The white was quickly contrasted with pitch eyes that somehow focused on him, despite the lack of pupils. Two others, who Dean quickly noticed were the only other people in the diner now, flashed their demonic symptoms, the uniformed one striding to the door to lock it then take position in front of it. Dean stiffened.

The female's eyes melted back to piercing green. "Dean. Hell's escapee."

"That's me." Dean flashed his own pearly whites.

"So what'd you do, precious, just stroll out of the pit? What makes you so special?" Her gaze raked down his body and he suppressed a shudder.

"I like to think it's because of my perky nipples." He grinned and let it fall to the ground. "I don't know. Wasn't my doing. I don't know who pulled me out."

"Oh, of course you don't." She rolled her eyes to flicker to Sam, then refocused back on Dean.

"_I don't._"

"Lying's a sin, you know," she said casually.

"I'm not lying. But I'd like to find out, so if you wouldn't mind enlightening me, Flo-"

"Mind you're tone, _honey._ I'm not afraid to drag you back to hell." The words were hissed, but still doused with a false sweetness that made Dean's skin crawl.

Sam suddenly had the demon knife out, held against the white flesh of the demon's neck.

"You touch him, you die," he snarled, voice low and menacing. Dean lunged across the table, jerking Sam's arm away while trying to ignore the smug smile that stretched the woman's pink lips.

"She won't touch me, Sam," Dean said, addressing his brother but speaking more for the benefit of the demonic bastards.

"I won't?" she asked innocently.

"No. Because if you were, you would have done it already. Fact is, you don't know who cut me loose." She clenched her jaw, pursing her lips. "And you're just as spooked as we are. And you're looking for answers. Well, maybe it was some turbo-charged spirit. Or, uh, Godzilla." Her eyes got impossibly sharper. "Or some big bad boss demon. I'm guessing at your pay grade that they don't tell you squat. Because whoever it was, they want me out. And they're a lot stronger than you.

"So go ahead. Send me back. But don't come crawling to me when they show up on your front doorstep with some Vaseline and a fire hose."

"I'm going to tear out your vocal cords with my bare hands," she seethed, but the words only reached Dean's ears as an empty threat. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, startling Sam and the woman with a sharp right hook to her cheekbone. There was a sharp crack and her head jerked back, but she offered no other reaction. He swung another, getting the same results.

"That's what I thought. Let's go, Sam."

Both of them rose. Dean reached into his pocket, eyes still locked with the now black ones of the demon, and gently set a curled ten dollar bill in front of her. "For the pie."

Then he tore his gaze away and strode towards the exit, Sam stepping in sync behind him.

000

**A/N: And, that's chapter two! I changed the demon girl up, even imagined her slightly different. I don't know, so don't ask my why. :P**

**Hope you enjoyed! Leave a review if you did! Love y'all!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry it took so long and for it being short, but here it is. Hope you like it. :D**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own SPN. Some dialogue was taken directly from the show, though, most of it kept out of necessity, or just cause I like those particular lines. :D**

**Rated: T for swearing**, drug/alcohol references**, dark themes.**

**WARNINGS: SPOILERS FOR LAZARUS RISING AND SEASON 4 IN GENERAL.**

000

CHAPTER THREE

Sam hated lying to his brother. Though it wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

But the demons had to be dealt with. For the past four months he hadn't let any demon he encountered get away; he sees it, he kills it or exorcizes it. End of story. No hesitation. He couldn't _not_ kill them. Every single time he locked gazes with pitch eyes, his blood would pump, his heart would race, thirsty to kill, to end one more bastard who killed his brother. They should consider it mercy. His quick exorcisms paled in comparison to what Sam thought - knew - they actually deserved.

Johnny Mac's Diner was dead silent, save the whispering jukebox somewhere further in. He scanned the room, gaze pouncing on the only thing out of place; a body, lying facedown on the floor halfway behind the counter. One of the demons from before. With cautious steps, he approached, shoes tapping on the tile, Ruby's knife extended out in front of him. As he got closer, the distinct color of red could be seen smeared on the man's hands.

He swallowed and bent his knees, crouching down next to the human body and reaching with his left hand to roll it over. Empty, scarlet, eye sockets stared back at him. The corners of his lips turned down in a grimace. No pulse. Shit.

He let out a breath, standing to examine the rest of the building.

Something hard and solid and definitely equipped with strength beyond a human's crashed into him from behind, sending him sprawling over a table which broke underneath the weight of both of them. Human, but impossibly quick knuckles, cracked against his eye socket, then cheekbone, then nose, sparking fireworks across his vision.

With a strained growl, he caught thin wrists and yanked them to his left and down, bringing his head up to crash into his attacker's. Said attacker hissed in response, but didn't have enough time to react before he head-butted her again. Taking advantage of her momentary dazed state, he brought his legs up and kicked her away, scrambling to his feet as she stumbled back. Her eyes were empty and bloody as well.

The demon girl kept her elbows facing outward as she faced his general direction, teeth barred like a cornered cat; both vicious and afraid.

"Your eyes," he gritted out, knife still in position to strike, feet planted firmly.

"I don't need eyes to smell you," she hissed.

"It was here. You saw it."

She swallowed, her composure wavering. "I saw it."

Sam narrowed his eyes and took a step forward, careful not to startle her enough to regret it. "What the hell is it?"

A look of reigned terror crossed her sightless features, at the same time twisting with rage. She shifted her feet. "The end. We're dead. We're all dead!"

"_What. Is it,_" he repeated, advancing another step.

"Go to hell," she spat, barring her teeth once more.

Sam clenched his jaw, but let his shoulders lose their tension while straightening. He could hear the blood coursing through her veins, the dull thumping of her heart... and he could hear his own heart in his ears, his own tainted blood traveling through his body.

"You know that's funny." He almost sneered. "I was going to say the same thing to you."

Without waiting a beat, he lifted his hand, palm facing his target, and concentrated on the darkness within the girl in front of him, forcing it to expel. Muffled by the sound of his heart, he could hear the faint sounds of gagging, then small crackling as he imagined the black seeping into the floor. He opened his eyes just in time to see the body fall and he rushed forward to catch it. His fingers found her neck and he searched for a pulse while lowering her to the ground.

None.

"Dammit," he muttered, the air slowly wheezing out of his lungs as he stood.

The sound of the kitchen door opening caught his attention, but he only offered a quick glance to the figure who approached, cautious gaze sweeping the room.

"Getting pretty slick there, Sam," said a familiar female voice. "Better all the time."

He shrugged and eyed the two bodies, figuring the third was in a back room unless it left before whatever-the-hell-it-was showed up.

"What the hell was it?" he asked quickly, eyes finally meeting the black-haired girl, blank with a hint of calculation.

"Wish I knew," she responded simply.

"Elite demon?"

"No way. Sam, human souls don't just walk out of Hell and back into their bodies easy. The sky bleeds, the ground quakes. It's cosmic. No demon can swing that. Not Lilith, not anybody."

He narrowed his eyes, studying her face. A slight frown creased her forehead.

"What?"

"Nothing," he turned away from her to face the dead cook behind the counter. "Then what can?"

Silence, then a small sigh.

"Nothing I've ever seen before."

Sam pursed his lips and offered a terse nod. He worried his lip and eased himself into one of the booths, followed by Ruby who slid in opposite of him.

"So. Million dollar question: are you going to tell Dean about what we're doing?" She set her elbows on the tabletop and leaned forward, eyes searching his.

"Yeah," was all he offered, spotting the slouch in her shoulders from the corner of his eye.

"Care to elaborate?"

"I just need time. He isn't exactly going to like it." He shrugged again, feeling stiff.

"Well, he's going to find out soon, and if it's not from you, he's going to be pissed." The seat squeaked as she pushed herself off the table, leaning back.

"He's going to pissed anyway."

A beat of silence.

"Look. Maybe I'll just take a step back for a while." Sam continued to study his fingers which were laced together in front of him, examining each pore as if it were a science experiment. He heard her shift. "I mean, I'm not exactly in your brother's fanclub. But he is your brother, and I'm not going to come between you."

"Yeah... I just... I just don't know if what I'm doing is right. Hell, I don't even trust you yet."

He could feel her eyes burning a hole in his head. "Thanks," she drawled.

"But what I do know is that I'm saving people," he said, keeping his tone neutral. "And stopping demons. And that feels good... So I'm not going to stop."

000

Friggin' monsters.

_Dean knelt down next to Bobby._

Friggin' demons.

_He pressed his fingers to the old hunter's neck, hoping but not really doubting he'd find a pulse._

Friggin' 'angels'.

_"Your friend's alive," said the deep, supposed angelic, voice._

_Dean lifted his gaze to glare at the 'angel'-infested body standing above him, who was, apparently, leafing through one of the books Bobby had set on the table. "Who are you?"_

_"Castiel." 'Castiel' didn't look up from the pages._

_"Yeah, I figured that much, I mean _what_ are you?" He had too many questions since he got out of hell, but he'd start with that one._

_The man - excuse him, _angel_ - finally lifted his head and met Dean's eyes, eyebrows pulled together in a constant thoughtful look. "I'm an Angel of the Lord."_

And, well, shit, because apparently the bastard thought 'God commanded it' and that 'He had work for Dean' and the dude had freaky, invisible, shadow wings. He also shook the roof of the building and shattered every light bulb in sight without lifting a finger, then did some spooky mojo on Bobby to make him drop unconscious on the spot after he repelled every-freaking-thing they had on hand.

Oh yes; of course Dean believed him.

But right then, all Dean wanted was for Bobby to hurry the hell up and get back to the motel - back to _Sam_ because he didn't know what else to do. _He didn't know what to do._

He sighed, bringing his hand up to rub the aching spot between his eyes.

"How you doin'?" came Bobby's voice to his left. _Isn't that the question of the hour? Or day. Or month... or year..._

_How about crappy?_

_Confused?_

_Tired?_

_Frustrated?_

_Angry?_

_Friggin' wondering what the hell to do..._

"_Awesome,_" he supplied, slouching further into the passenger seat.

"Yeah, you look it," was Bobby's gruff response, then Dean found a flask thrust beneath his nose. He gave a questioning look to the older hunter even as he grabbed the container, tilting it to his lips to take a long swig.

"Thanks," he managed, basking in the burn the alcohol provided.

Bobby grunted.

"Hey, we-" Dean started.

"Keep your britches on; we're almost there."

The oldest Winchester scowled, but held his tongue. He just needed a mattress, a blanket and a pillow and he was set for the next week.

000

Sam looked like shit.

Aside from the paleness of his skin and fatigued shadows on his face, fresh bruises marred the skin around his left eye, right cheekbone and the bridge of his nose. When Bobby and Dean entered the room, he stood to his feet from the desk chair at attention, but his movements were obviously strained to an older brother's eyes. Even after four months in hell, several feet under, he could still tell when his brother was hurting. Sluggish movements here, little shoulders hunches there.

"What the hell happened to you?" Dean asked, listening to the sound of Bobby closing the door.

Sam cocked his head to the side, the light from the lamp casting shadows over his face, darkening the bruises but not veiling the genuine confusion.

"Um... what?" he offered, his shoulders rolling slightly, pulling what Dean imagined were sore muscles.

"Your..." Dean paused, gesturing at his own head. "...face. Thought you said you went to get a burger." He moved across the room, coming to stand next to the bathroom door, pretending not to notice the way Sam's eyes darted to his duffel that was lying on the floor nearby. Bobby stepped hesitantly over to one of the beds to perch on the edge.

"I did. Ran into some trouble, but I'm fine. You should see the other guy." He quirked a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Dean watched his countenance closely, assessing the small cut below his eye, the bluish stained skin in the hollows of his face and the loose hanging of his shoulders that would every now and then stiffen, hunching back up near his neck.

What exactly was 'trouble'?

But he would let it slide. He was tired, Sam looked tired, Bobby probably wanted some peace and quiet for the first time in a couple of days.

He still wanted to talk to his brother, though. Catch up. He had friggin'_ four months_ to catch up on.

Unfortunately, Bobby had other ideas. As soon as their gazes locked, Bobby raised his eyebrows, indicating towards the door with a small jerk of his head. Dean frowned, but turned to his brother anyway.

"Hey, uh, I'm gonna grab something from the vending machine." He took a few strides towards the door and paused, glancing over his shoulder at his brother who had yet to respond.

"What? Do you want my permission?" Sam grinned - full on dimples - and headed to the bathroom. Dean couldn't stop the smirk that crept onto his lips.

"Shuddap," he muttered and exited the room.

Outside was still warm, clutching to the previous rays of sunlight that seeped through the windows. He released a sigh and shuffled over until he was standing in front of the snack machine, leaning against it. It felt like hours had passed when the room door finally slid open. The old hunter eased out and approached him with quick feet.

"We need to talk."

"Yeah, I gathered that much. About what?" he pushed himself to stand straight, frowning.

"About your brother. You remember those syringes?"

Dean resisted a scoff. "Yeah. I can't _not_ remember." He crossed his arms over his chest, hoping the tinge of urgency in Bobby's voice was just his imagination.

"Well, I swiped one first chance I got. Asked a favor of a friend and dropped it off on the way to Pam's. He texted me back on the way here."

He recalled the older man's frequent button-mashing and gave a nod.

A knot of dread twisted in his stomach when Bobby's stature wilted, a long breath slipping through his lips. Where the hell was this going? Someplace bad, he knew. He didn't want another shit-wad thrown at them. He wanted to recover. He just got back from_ the pit,_ dammit.

"I would'a told you sooner, but... It didn't seem appropriate."

Dean tensed. "_Just spit it out, Bobby._"

His mentor seemed to deflate even more.

"There were... traces of... of cocaine in it."

Dean blinked.

_Excuse me?_

No.

It sounded like Bobby said...

_Oh..._

_Oh God, no. _

_Shit._

But... Sammy wouldn't. Sam wouldn't _do_ that.

_Not if you hadn't left._

_Shit!_

000

**A/N: Okay. I feel kinda weird for ending it in a swear word, but... Whatever. **

**But, yeah, like I said: I imagined a lot darker Sam when Dean was gone. **

**Thank you all for reading. Your support is GREATLY appreciated. Tell me what you think. :) Impalas for those who review! ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: And, wow, that took a while. Grandparents came over for a week for Thanksgiving and I couldn't get on. Now I'm back. ;) Hope you're not too mad.**

**Anyways, here it is. Not really an action packed chapter, but hopefully the next will be.**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own SPN. Some dialogue was taken directly from the show, though, most of it kept out of necessity, or just cause I like those particular lines. :D**

**Rated: T for swearing, drug/alcohol references, dark themes.**

**WARNINGS: SPOILERS FOR LAZARUS RISING AND SEASON 4 IN GENERAL.**

000

CHAPTER FOUR

Bobby watched Dean's face closely, looking for the signs of anguish, fury, guilt and protectiveness that would surely flash in his eyes, similar feelings stirring in his own gut. Confusion was added to the list when the younger man's features went slack, blank; actually, Bobby couldn't read any emotion in the dull green orbs. Relief and worry quickly piled onto his boiling emotions.

"Dean?"

The other hunter didn't offer a response, verbally or physically.

Bobby's worry climbed up a notch.

"_Dean?_" he pressed, reaching out a hand, only to retreat when said boy flinched, blinking once, twice, three times before finally meeting his gaze.

He wasn't sure what he'd find swimming in the irises, but the intensity, no matter what emotion was there, was too much for the older man and he found his gaze fluttering to the carpet below his feet.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he managed, unable and not knowing anything else to say.

When had things gotten so screwy?

He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to focus his thoughts on the two men, the closest people he had to family, who needed him most right then.

The older brother cleared his throat, then swallowed noisily. "Yeah..." came a rasp acknowledgment.

_Damn. _

He hated every bit of the situation. Of the past situation. Hell, he hated almost every situation he'd been in. This one just took the cake.

"I..." Dean continued. Or tried to.

Bobby lifted his eyes to see the boy run a hand through his hair, turning to observe the empty hallway, shoes scuffling.

"_Shit,_" he spat fervently and Bobby couldn't help but agree. "Dammit, Bobby. _Dammit!_" And the boy continued the long string of colorful language until the older man just shut it out, nodding along because everything he said was probably correct. He only snapped out of his stupor when Dean shouldered past him, striding towards the motel room door.

"Whoa, whoa, there." He caught Dean's arm and spun him around. "What are you doing?"

"Why did he do it, Bobby? _Why the hell did he do it?_"

Bobby's eyebrows shot up on their own accord, his mouth going dry at the lack of answers he could come up with. Well, lack of answers he would say aloud. Not to Dean; no, he wouldn't say it.

"I think you need to calm down," he substituted.

"Why the hell should I calm down!? This is the perfect time to _not_ be calm!" Dean wrenched his arm out of Bobby's grip, going stiff at his side. Kid was going to wake the whole facility.

"Of course this is the perfect time to not be calm, but you better have a plan before you go in there and start yelling at your brother!"

Dean winced.

"I wasn't going to yell at him! I was going to..." He trailed off, working his jaw, but leaning against the wall in defeat. The tension leaked out of his muscles, leaving a weary, worried, and rightly pissed, older brother.

Bobby let some of his own tension leave and tried to think of, at least, a temporary solution...

Was there one?

"I just..."

"I know," he mumbled, somehow offering assurance with the small, insignificant statement.

What were they supposed to do? Neither Bobby nor Dean really _knew_ the man waiting back in their room, nor did they know how to help him. Both _did_ know that the last four months had changed him - changed all of them - but Bobby hadn't expected _that_ change. Sam had been spiraling out of control and Bobby hadn't been there to help catch him. At least Dean had a reason for not being there; all Bobby had was an inability to catch Sam.

Shoving down his own guilt, he examined the brother before him - the shadows under his eyes, the resigned droop in his stance, the ancient look filtering behind his face - and felt the corners of his mouth turn down.

These boys - his boys - were falling apart.

Dean's resurrection wasn't supposed to be this way.

"Maybe you should... Take a walk. Take a drive. Git your head cleared before you go marching in there."

Green eyes peered up at him, looking all but ten years old, a little boy asking his daddy to fix it, to fix everything, and Bobby felt a swell of duty, of responsibility, to do just that.

"Cause I think the last thing you _both_ need is an argument," he added for good measure. Because it was true. They needed to find their feet before they were knocked down again.

Surprisingly, Dean nodded and stepped past the older man, moving towards the elevator with ease, despite the difficulty swinging in the air, above them all, like a pendulum. Dang, Bobby needed a drink. But he had a job to do: watch out for his boys.

With a determined puff of breath, he turned on his heel and all but marched towards the door to the hissing of the elevator closing. He forced his hand on the knob, knowing if he hesitated, he _would_ go get a drink.

It twisted easily and he pushed the door open, catching the sound of the shower running as he closed it behind him.

Well, he'd just wait then.

000

Dean plopped heavily into one of the plush, leather, lobby chairs, planting his elbows on his knees while pressing his mouth to his clasped hands.

_Dammit, Sam. _

How was he supposed to fix this?

He'd gone up against, wendigos, demons, ghouls, vampires, werewolves, friggin' tricksters, and he didn't know how to fix this? Screw drugs. Screw suicide. Screw every-freaking-thing. He couldn't do this. He didn't know how to fix this. He'd never _had_ to. Because Sam had never...

The room around him went red for a moment and he tightened his knuckles, closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose.

Why did Sam do that? _Why did he do it?_

_Why did you do it, Sammy? _

He untangled his hands to wipe his eyes, calloused fingers trailing down his cheeks to meet again at his chin.

His brother was different. But he supposed he shouldn't have expected him to be the same. Hell, barely one day with Sam dead left Dean changed forever. He would never get the image of his brother falling to his knees, face catching the raindrops as he tried desperately to save him out of his head. He could barely fathom what Sam had gone through during_ four months. _

But something was different. Not in a good way. Excluding the drugs and the suicide attempt, there was still _something_ else. Damn it all, there was still something. Something that made his skin crawl and his gut writhe.

_And he didn't know how to fix it._

He needed to talk to his brother.

Standing to his feet, he headed towards the elevator. Sure, he didn't have any plan whatsoever, but at least he didn't feel like punching a wall anymore.

And again, with the friggin' slow elevator.

When the gray doors finally parted, he squeezed through the crack and loped to the door marked two-o-seven, offering no hesitation as he opened it.

Bobby's head whipped around to look at him, an disapproving scowl flooding his face.

"What happened to your walk?"

"I walked... out of the elevator. Then back into the elevator." He ignored the pool of disappointment that curled in his chest at the sound of the shower running.

He'd have to wait.

The old hunter grunted. "...idjit..."

Dean quirked a smile, but it quickly slid from his face. It didn't feel right.

He often wondered if it ever would again. If he could ever show an honest-to-God smile again. He would for Sammy. If Sam would do it for him. Hell, if Sam just friggin' chuckled, Dean would be beaming like an idiot for the rest of the day.

The mattress felt stiff beneath him. Even if his mind told him that, his body responded to the cushion and practically melted into it, struggling to stay sitting up.

_Hurry the hell up, Sammy._

Like a telepathic miracle, the water shut off. Dean exchanged a look with Bobby.

After a few agonizing minutes, the door eased open, revealing a fully dressed but still soggy Sam, phone and dirty clothes in hand as he shuffled out of the bathroom.

"Hey, I got a call from," He paused, but only for a second. "- from a friend. There's a demon; one I've been trying to catch. He thinks he knows where it is." Even as he explained, he hurried to pack what little belongings he had. The stiffness in his movements still lingered and Dean couldn't help but notice the grayish-purple spots peeking out from the collar of Sam's shirt.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, gaze briefly flickering around the room before returning to his little brother.

"I think we need to have a talk, Sam," he managed, hating the doubt in his voice. Sam froze mid-shrugging on a jacket and their eyes met. With a barely noticeable nod, he flipped the coat onto his shoulders and leaned down to heft his duffel off the floor.

"Okay. Talk to me on the way."

Dean pursed his lips. The tension in Sam's shoulders increased, hunching towards his neck as he strode towards the door.

"Don't think so, Sammy," he said to his brother's back. If Dean thought it was possible, Sam's shoulders tensed even more. Then with painfully slow movements, Sam faced the two older men, expression unreadable.

Dean waited a beat.

Uncertainty flickered in muddy eyes, followed immediately by frustration, barely noticeable emotions and Dean wondered if even Bobby could catch it.

"Look. Can't this wait? We need to go; this thing is killing people," Sam stated, jaw clenching, a hint of exasperation dipping his eyebrows.

Dean held his brother's gaze and tried not to let his resolve waver.

But he was right, wasn't he? People _were_ dying; when did they not when a demon was involved?

He needed to talk to Sam and he knew Bobby would want a part in the conversation, but maybe he would just have to deal with it. If this was the way it had to go, then Dean would go with it. As long as he could just _talk to Sam._

"Okay," he finally gave, casting Bobby a look before following his brother towards the door.

Once in the car, Dean found that words had escaped him, leaving his mouth dry and his stomach rolling along with the tires that carried them down the road. He knew Sam was waiting for it by the way he still hadn't relaxed, even after half an hour.

With still no ideas on his tongue, he opened his mouth anyway.

"I know what you want me to talk about," Sam said instead, cutting off Dean mid-inhale.

He frowned and shot his brother a quick glance, confusion but also resignation written on his face. "You do?"

"Yeah. I'm not blind. Or stupid." Dean parted his lips to interject, only to be interrupted again. "Before you say anything, I just want to tell you that-" Sam sighed, tone softening. "I don't... take it..."

His eyebrows seemed determined to touch together and he couldn't help when they lowered further. He wasn't taking... drugs? Then why the hell did he carry around _four_ syringes with the damned stuff coating the inside?

"You don't?" he asked dryly, chancing another look at Sam who offered a terse nod despite Dean's obvious disbelief. "Then why the hell do you have the friggin' stuff?"

Sam flinched, eyes fluttering away to look out the passenger window, lips pressed together - sealed.

_Oh, no you don't._

"Uh uh, Sam. I'm not dealing with that crap. You're talking. _Now._"

That got his attention. His head whipped around to face Dean, eyes alight with frustration and a challenge.

"Don't order me around," he spat, the 'order' strained like it was a cursed word. "I'm not a kid anymore; I'm pretty sure I've proven that in the last few months."

Dean's eyebrows bounced up. "Really? You call suicide and drugs 'proving'?"

Even Dean flinched.

Sam narrowed his eyes; the only sign that gave his anger away.

The air in the Impala grew heavy as Dean waited for the harsh words, maybe even a hit, to come. He certainly could think of a few colorful phrases to say to himself right then. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or even more worried when all he got was a stiff 'pull over' from the freakishly tall figure to his right.

He blinked.

"What?" _Stupid, pathetic, brutal..._ He cursed himself at his lame response. He was supposed to help Sammy. Ease him into explaining. Coax the hard shell, the heaviness, off his shoulders. All he managed to do was piss him off. _Oh yeah, goody for Dean. You're just the bestest big brother ever, aren't you?_ He was an ass.

"_Pull. Over,_" Sam repeated through clenched teeth.

He obeyed.

The vehicle behind them, Bobby, faltered, slowing to a stop at the shoulder as well.

As soon as the Impala drifted below ten miles per hour, Sam jerked the door open and hopped out, escaping the interior with quick, precise motion.

"Shit!" he swore, slamming the car to a stop, leaving the keys in the ignition as he slid out to his feet. "Sam!" he called to the retreating form already several paces down the street.

"Dean?" came Bobby's concerned and confused voice.

"Dammit, Bobby." He turned to face the older hunter. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

"...What did you do?"

"I did my best 'shitty older brother' impersonation!" He jerked his hands in the air, kicking at the front left tire without really touching it. He swore again, loudly and venomously, directing all the words to himself.

Bobby grimaced and his eyes looked over Dean's shoulder.

"You two will be the death of me," he muttered, gazing back at the older brother. "Well, what are you doing still standing there?"

Dean glared.

"_Not_ doing my 'shitty older brother' impersonation anymore?" he tried.

"Then go get him!"

Without further 'orders', Bobby turned and marched back towards his own truck.

000

Sam wanted to hit something. Scream something. But anything he had to scream at Dean would no doubt be the opposite of what he really wanted. 'Damn you' just... wouldn't. He wouldn't say anything like that. He couldn't. He didn't want to.

With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair, wincing as the muscles in his upper back stretched. Man, his back hurt. His chest hurt. _He_ hurt. He lifted his gaze upward, squinting against the hot sun that warmed the surface of his skin to the point of discomfort.

He never liked the summer. Too hot. He always preferred winter... or autumn. Jess would call him a spoil-sport whenever he would stay in on the hotter days, claiming he needed to get used to California weather. He heaved another sigh at the thought of her smile that was just as bright, if not brighter than the sun... She did like Christmas, though. Never a year where she wouldn't insist on putting up lights, elaborate but simple ornaments, making sure she got everyone she knew a present. Then the snow. She loved snow. She would pray every day in December for snow. She also loved homemade hot chocolate; she always made some, even if it wasn't even that cold...

Something buzzed against his thigh, a strange chirping noise, making him jump. He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

'_Dean_' the screen told him.

Should he answer? He was still pissed, but his little mind-trip down memory lane had calmed his nerves at the same time as seeping his energy.

Dean was just... at a loss. Sam knew it. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he knew Dean didn't know what to do with himself. Dean was pissed, as he had a right to be. Probably confused, too... and disappointed...

He flipped his cell open and pressed the speaker against his ear.

"What?" he said, tone carefully neutral.

"_Sam?_"

"Who else would it be, genius?" He scuffed the toe of his shoe on the asphalt, spinning around to face the Impala and the person who sat on the hood of it. "Dude, you can see me." He lifted a hand to emphasize his point, shaking his head when he spotted his brother mimicking the movement.

"_Yeah, I know._"

"And you didn't just walk because...?"

Silence.

A huff of breath.

"_I didn't know if..._"

Sam swallowed and nodded, even though he knew his brother couldn't see that far.

"Yeah," he rasped.

Sam was surprised he hadn't started ranting and cursing and yelling at his brother. The buzz of his last dose was still running through his veins, pounding in his ears, albeit wearing off. It wouldn't be more than a couple more days before he needed more.

He found his heart much more forgiving than he expected.

Maybe it was the fact that he'd just gotten Dean back.

"_Sam?_" came an uncertain and unvoiced question. _Are you coming? _

He nodded again.

"I'm commin'."

He flipped the phone shut and started shuffling back towards the Impala, bruised muscles making themselves known once more. He saw Dean sway off of the bumper and get back in the driver's seat.

Sam was immature. No matter what he claimed, he couldn't fight the voice in his head that said he was an immature screwup. No matter what he did, he always did the _wrong_ thing. He didn't save Jess. He didn't save Dean. He didn't save Dad. He didn't even _respect_ Dad. He was basically the reason Mom was dead. He didn't stop Azazel. He didn't save Max, Andy, Ava... He didn't save _himself_ from Jake. He didn't save _Dean. Again._ He hadn't done the right thing for so long... That's why he was going to kill Lilith.

_Damn. _

Lilith. No matter what he thought about, it always came back to her. When he wasn't hunting her, he wanted nothing to do with her - not even thoughts.

He shook his head, ignoring protesting limbs, and picked up his pace.

000

**A/N: Tell me watcha think, y'all. Reviews are my fuel. Have an extra Tuesday if you left a review! ;)**


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